


Panemian

by pxrla



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hunger Games Tributes, Tributes, compiliation, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxrla/pseuds/pxrla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A growing collection of one-shots, prompts and stories collected from research to expand on the world built by author Suzanne Collins of the Hunger Games series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panemian

**Author's Note:**

> Please see end notes for disclaimer.
> 
> Prompt I. The Letter
> 
> Part of the 66th Hunger Games compilation. Centered in District 1, during the celebration of the games.

She left him something.

He doesn’t think he can open it but it just sits there, on the marble counter; small enough that he could push it off the counter, let it flip onto the floor for Maileen to toss out with the rest of the garbage.  Is it garbage? This tiny golden letter stamped with a small, square wax seal.

' _Nothing will happen_ ', he thinks, '  _If I don't open it. Whatever is inside can die. I could burn it. I could toss it. It isn't real if it burns._ ' 

He opens it anyways and the thoughts burn in the letter's stead.

Brushing his fingers over the lavender stationary, folded carefully, he searches for memories to associate with it. She took great care to write this and she did what she always denied others a right to see. Terra poured herself into this letter. He was sure that every word written here would be in her penmanship; a smooth and curved style that she had developed over the years. He could hold the letter against him and feel her with him. Let the memories bring her to life.

He could drown in those memories, he was certain, drown in days of running and laughing. Drown in their kisses, the sweet smell of lavender that filled the air, the slight buzzing of the night’s insects flying by. It would all be there: soft grass cushioning their tired forms, a cloudless sky full of stars just above, the swaying of the trees in the cool late summer breeze. He didn’t need to face it. The letter itself brought her back to him and it was as if he could almost hold her.  The contents are a different matter all together. Her words would bring more than memories back, it would bring her to him in a stronger way than his mind could fathom at the moment.

She would be gone when the letter was finished with. Reality would smack him across the face and force him to accept it. It would cling to him, clawing at his vision until he chose to accept and descend into madness. A more romantic option, she would have said. Why live when she had not? Why not find every way possible to see her again, be with her again even if it was part of the machinations of his brain?

Wouldn’t that be better?

“It wouldn’t be fair…” He knew. There was no going back. She was dead and in the ground, one of a dozen plots. The resting place of previous tributes, fenced in by high marble walls to separate it from the Stillness. He owed it to her.

However his mind would not make it easy.

The letter was unfolded, and true to its color, filled the room with a heady lavender. It was as if a field of them had suddenly cropped up. He began to read aloud, resting on the floor, back tight and still against the counter, and she was beside him so quickly.

She read to him then and he knew every word would be etched in his mind forever.

“I volunteered. Master Halin will be, most likely has been, beside himself. If you’re reading this it means I've lost. If you're reading this it means I am dead. Was it violently or valiantly? Beautifully or barbarically? Let’s not ponder because you already know and I have yet to feel a thing. You are in a bad place right now but you have to focus and you have to pull yourself together. I have died but you are alive and free. As free as one can be considering how we live.”

She is there, with her hair strewn all around, a mess of curls creating curtains around her face. Eyes gleaming. So brown and bright. His reading continues even as his breath catches and the smell of lavender is joined by the steady, warm breathing of her. Resting against his side, with those curls half hiding her. She is whole and plucked from her pretty plot.

“District 1 career dead? What a surprise. Don't let them sully my name at the academy. I heard from a reliable source you're to be made part of their council. Not shabby at all. Little finch, sweet boy with a sweet face, let those jagged edges show. I'm dead, you're alive and you can't change things. I'd write it 1,000 times if I wanted to and it wouldn't faze you.”

He looks away and notices the letter wrinkling around his clenching fists. He gets up, smoothes it on the counter and focuses only on the words, on the curvy lettering.

She is whispering in his ear.

“I did and always will love you and I am glad that you are able to continue. You and I know this can’t possibly be the end so, whatever lies ahead, I'm keeping my promise to meet you. Even if I have to wait forever. I'll wait but you must not hurry to see me. Silly Finch. Give me a gift? Give me candy and coins. Give me sweet nectar and bright toys. Silly Finch you own the world, all that glitters and glimmers…”

He sings the lullaby with her and no tears roll down his eyes but they ache, they sting enough to make him think they ought to.

“Silly Finch, don’t you know? All of us here know. We own all that glitters, glimmers and glows. All that is bright and sweet and that shines. Silly Finch. Silly Finch. Don’t dare say, ‘I’ll never share what is mine!’ I am gone and you are not. Be that which shines and glows and glimmers. Let me be the learned finch. Please because now all that is left is our goodbye.”

It isn’t even signed.

Van doesn’t need it to be. She is gone and his head feels as though it has been slammed against a wall. It rings and throbs, and all in the room around him is suddenly big and bright. All he can do is lean, leave his body bending slowly over the counter and bid his body to breathe properly.

All there is now is to do what she asks for.

All there is now is to live. 

**Author's Note:**

> I recognize that the Hunger Games series belongs to Suzanne Collins and that this work makes no attempt to gain any type of remuneration, or profits. All rights and intellectual property belong to the owners of the franchise.


End file.
